Lord of the Rings: Before the Legend
by Fyrie
Summary: What were the Lord of the Rings characters like as children? Were they happy? Mischievous? Lonely? I got to wondering and this series of short ficlets came about.
1. Estel in Rivendell

It had been many years since such a sound had rung within the halls of Imladris, but now, they rang out in abundance.  
  
A small, rosy-fleshed child, certainly not an Elf, was apparently loose in the hallways of the Last Homely House and was giggling in delight. Such childish mirth had not been heard within the trellised passages for centuries.  
  
He had managed to break free as his mother when she was bathing him. She had turned away, for but a moment, to fetch a pitcher and that had been enough for her ranging son. It was difficult for her to keep him in one place at one time and no mere bath ws going to contain him.  
  
Leaving a trail of shiny, wet footprints upon the elaborately patterned floor, he ran as fast as his little legs would carry him, dark curls bouncing on plump pink shoulders, unindered by the robes and gowns that were no doubt holding his mother back.  
  
  
  
Oh no, she would not catch him! The little boy scrambled down a flight of steps, sitting down and sliding from step to step on his dimpled rear, each one too large for him to simply climb down. She would not put him back in the water and scrub him again! He was free!  
  
The ground was firm under his bare feet, his toes curling at the feel, and he clapped his hands in delight as he started into the courtyard, seeing a large group of people gathered there, several of whom had turned to look at him.  
  
Including _Ada_ Elrond.  
  
Raising both arms to his part-father, Estel dashed towards him, so focussed upon his father-figure that he did not heed the warning, nor notice how off-course he was until his slight frame collided with the leg of someone he had not noticed before.  
  
Knocked back a step by the impact, the child landed on the leaf-scattered ground, bumping heavily, large blue eyes suddenly wide with pained surprise. Slowly, everso slowly, his lower lip quivered, fat tears rising in his eyes even as he was gathered up by Elrond.  
  
Hush, little one, hush, Elrond soothed gently, smoothing Estel's damp curls back from flushed cheeks, kissing the child's brow. All is well.   
  
If aught, Estel's lip trembled even more, tears slipping down his face. I fell down, he whispered, pointing one small finger at the ground. It hurted me. The finger moved to point to the leg he had most unfortunately encountered. And it bumped me.  
  
I think, A voice he had never heard before distracted the little boy and he looked up at the owner of the leg, a tall, fair-haired Elf who Estel had never seen before. You bumped into me. Serious grey eyes looked at him and Estel pulled a face, crossing his arms on his bare chest and scowling.  
  
Did not.  
  
The Elf looked like he almost smiled, though his expression was calm. Then I crave your pardon, little Master, he said, in all seriousness, his hand raised to press to his chest and he bowed his head slightly. I most rudely placed my leg in your path.  
  
Estel tilted his pointed little chin up and sniffed, as if his temper had been sufficiently mollified, drawing chuckles from the Elves around them.   
  
And what, Elrond asked, graceful fingers turning Estel's face to his. Are you doing, running out of doors in naught but your skin when we are greeting our guests?  
  
Blue eyes blinked as if Elrond were gravely stupid. Mama wished to bathe me.  
  
The four-year-old looked pained at his mother's voice. I did. Within a matter of moments, the petulant-looking Estel had been, once more, caught within his mother's arms, leaving damp patches on Elrond's heavy robes. Your pardon, my Lord.  
  
Elrond inclined his head, smiling slightly. I do vaguely recall the dubious joy of trying to bathe a child, my Lady Gilraen, he replied softly, then looked at Estel, who glowered sullenly at him. And you, little one, should behave for your mother.  
  
A pink tongue was stuck out.  
  
His mama sounded most annoyed and Estel looked quickly apologetic. Again, I apologise, my Lords, she said, turning and carrying her son back towards the hallways that lead to their chambers, lightly smacking his rear. Will you behave this time, Estel?  
  
The child did not respond, peering over her shoulder at the fair-haired Elf, wondering who he was and why he was there. Mama, who was he?  
  
His mother looked around, then she smiled, lifting her son back down that he might not continue to watch their Elders. That is Legolas, the Prince of Mirkwood.  
  
Estel beamed at her. He bowed to me, mama! A Prince bowed to me! That was silly of him, wasn't it?  
  
A strange look crossed his mother's face and it took her a little bit longer to smile than it had done before. she said quietly. Very silly. 


	2. Grima in Edoras

Ever since he could recall, he had been different.  
Blighted by illness, always weaker than the other children of Edoras, he had never been quick enough to play with them, never strong enough, always left behind, left alone.   
And they laughed at him for it.  
Some taunted him, even threw sticks and stones at him.  
Blood came easily from beneath parchment-thin skin, bruises darkening his pallor, his dark hair tugged by laughing, strong-limbed, golden-haired boys who played the parts of the Rohirrim and hated the one who did not fit in.  
So he had hidden away from them, taken refuge in the home of his parents, hiding in the corners, tears on a face that remained untouched by the sun, pale and sallow, hair dull and lank about unnaturally thin features, distorted features.  
Even there, there was little sanctuary.  
It was not his parents fault, he knew, that they could not love him, that he was seen as little more than a labour. No family desired a weakling child. They were useless and worthless in a landscape where strength and power were valued.  
They did not harm him, his family.  
They simply ignored him. Wished him dead, perhaps. Better dead than weak in a land such as Rohan. It would have been a mercy to all, had he died at birth. Many had expected that, still did as he grew. His limbs were bent, clumsy, weak; his health was fallible; everything about him spoke of how closely he trod to death each day, every breath so close to being his last.  
But he did not die, though nor was he seen as living.  
No, he was not seen as normal.  
An oddity.  
Repulsive.  
Like an animal, he had been driven into hiding, a beaten horse cowering away from a Master's cruel hand, and, in hiding, a frightened and hate-filled animal he became, no longer viewing himself as one of them, shying from contact, suspicious and wary of all.  
Small and scrawny, he remained, even into his early adulthood. No one would have him near, when he dared to emerge from his parents' home. Horses shied from his touch, his scent stale, his hands clammy though he was eternally chilled.  
Sinking back into obscurity, he had staye din the shadows, shadows that he knew and trusted more than any living thin. All manner of filthy labour came his way, starting in the deepest belly of Edoras, but - staying within shadows - he slowly found his way creeping upwards, unseen, slithering through the darkness, evading the golden light of Rohan.  
Shadows aided him.  
Contained by them, he went unnoticed; moved freely; saw iher/i.  
And, as the sunlight rippled upon hair as gold as autumn leaves, and the fair lines of her face creased in merry, youthful laughter, Gríma - son of Gálmód - knew a emotion other than hate.  
He watched for so long, steeped in darkness and ugliness, as she moved, a creature of light and beauty and everything he was not, and, in those moments of secretly stolen pleasure, he found that he could smile.


End file.
